


Water Tight

by binz, shiplizard



Category: Dresden Files - All Media Types, Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Dom/sub, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hangover, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Service, Vomiting, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 20:10:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/binz/pseuds/binz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplizard/pseuds/shiplizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the 'Watersports' square on kink bingo: </p><p>A post-career-failure bender is a strange time to strike up a new romance. Or maybe it isn't, if you're looking for someone willing to protect and command you. AKA: What was happening to Morgan after <em>Storm Front</em> while Harry was off looking the other way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Water Tight

**Author's Note:**

> Note: contains vomiting, some nonsexual kink negotiation while drunk.

The drink started to turn on him an hour ago, but he’s a man who fights to the end of his battles, the end of his bottles. Even when they turn around and kick him in the teeth. The battles, not the bottles, although the bottles are doing their best to see to this discrepancy.

He should be in Edinburgh; the security is better. There is nothing for him here. He should have crossed the Ways first, when he was still in a state to do so, instead of crawling to the nearest watering hole he knew, and the man he should no longer even pretend to. There are places to sleep in the Worry Room, and the safety of privacy, of camaraderie, of his fellow Wardens watching his back. Instead, he’s here, in the States, in Dresden’s city. Dresden’s _miserable_ city. 

His face aches. He rubs at the apex of it, the constant pull and hot pressure, sharp lines spidering out across his cheekbone. He doesn’t know how badly it might be bruised; no one mentioned it, when he spoke to the White Council, but he is a Warden, and was present at a violent confrontation between warlocks. A little damage is to be expected. It can’t be too swollen; his eye opens and closes at his command, and McAnally had been ready with a cloth packed full of ice at the time. Minor repentance for aiding Dresden in his escape.

He should be in Edinburgh. The proper place for this, where his fears are etched into the stones of the place, worn in by centuries of Wardens fearing the same. He would have had support. Some, to be sure. It’s not like after a trial, like it was after Dresden’s trial; the Doom has been so rarely employed, but there would still be those, probably many, who understood the risk, the sheer stupidity in letting a known warlock loose in the world, unfettered even by the thin protection that Morgan’s constant observation had provided. He could have given a warning when the inevitable came. He could have given the Wardens time to respond. He has no illusions that when the day comes, Dresden will not make quick work of him-- but not as quick as the warlock thinks. 

His glass is empty, and the bottle beside it. He sucks a little sullenly on the last sliver of ice cube, rolls his head around, neck muscles loose and slightly uncalibrated, off balance, until he spies McAnally, behind his bar, at his stove, his back to Morgan. He would call the barman a traitor, if he had ever known his allegiances to begin with. And yet he’d thought that they could call each other friend, at least, if no more than that. McAnally had let Dresden break the peace. 

The bar is all but empty now; perhaps he should leave. The floor lurches beneath his seat when he makes to stand, and he closes his eyes for a moment until it stops spinning. 

He opens them when a warm, solid hand comes down gently on his shoulder, a soft impact on the table near his forehead-- when did...?-- and his eyes are burning, dry and gritty, and the bar is dark and put away and empty save for him and McAnally and the glass of water the barkeep’s just put down.

Morgan drains half the glass before he’s even aware he’s reached for it, and he forces himself to slow down, to take a deep breath and let his parched body soak some of it up before his stomach rejects everything he’s poured into it in the last twelve hours. 

Like thinking of it was the cue, nausea rolls through him, his belly churning, and he presses his lips together until McAnally’s hand taps at his jaw and he opens so the man can slip two pills inside his mouth. He taps the bottom of his chin, and Morgan swallows, washing the dry little pills away with another drink of water.

He sips the rest of the water down, turns a look on McAnally. He could have been poisoned, just now. He should be in Edinburgh; he has only promises of neutrality here-- and he has seen how easily those are broken-- and unfamiliar wards. 

“Aspirin,” McAnally says.

Morgan’s stomach lurches again-- he tips his head back, gritting his jaw, sweat suddenly cold and wet on his lower back, his neck. He’s a long way from home, and he is going to be sick before the night is through. Before the next half hour is through, if experience has taught him anything. God damn it.

“Hotel?” he manages, a moment later, brain slow and poorly balanced as it slides from thought to thought, missing on occasion. But he said it without much slurring, so that’s a victory. 

“Hng,” McAnally says. “Cab.” And gives his shoulder a pat and goes, disappearing into his back room.

Morgan sits up as straight as he can, his shoulderblades finding the booth-back, and tries to accustom himself to being upright, to prepare for the journey ahead. His head is heavy, and he’s tipping forward before he catches himself, pulls back and grits his teeth through the resulting dizziness, his mouth watering in a way that promises unpleasantness too soon in the future.

Mac comes back, holding his hands up: ten minutes. He makes a gesture, asking if Morgan can stand. Frankly, Morgan isn’t too sure about that, but he braces against the booth and shoves himself up like he’s coming out of a trench.

It was a bad decision. The world does a slow spin-- he’s caught between hangover and drunk, it’s profoundly unfair-- and Mac must recognize the look on his face, because he grabs his shoulders and shoves him in the direction of the bathroom, helping him into the single room and pulling the hair that’s come loose from his braid out of his beard just in time.

It’s one of the more humiliating things Morgan thinks he’s ever been through, which is patently ridiculous because you don’t live over a hundred years, through wars arrogant children like Dresden like to read books about and think themselves authorities on, without redefining mortification to something practically nonexistent.

But he is ashamed even as his body heaves and wretches and McAnally goes to his knees beside him and keeps his hair gathered back. 

When it’s over, the barman wets a paper towel and wipes his face, around his mouth and down his chin, cleaning bile out of his beard and off of his dry, cracking lips, and Morgan’s whole body goes hot and angry. 

“How dare you,” he slurs out hoarsely. “Ally of warlocks. Your hospitality is false.” McAnally stood by and let Dresden assault him, and the memory of Dresden’s fist is still as a clear as the ache in his face. 

“Dresden,” McAnally says soberly. 

“Dresden,” Morgan mocks, feeling like the child he has not been in a century-- here he sits helpless and under the judgement of this soft-spoken civility. Neutrality. Ha. A bald-faced lie to hide a core of cowardly pacifism, is more like.

“He’s not like you think.” The note of apology only makes him more furious. 

“And from what foundation do you take this great judgment?” he asks, or at least that’s what he says, some of the words are not entirely the ones he meant.

The barman shakes his head and says only: “Cab.” Then he grips Morgan under the upper arm and carefully guides him to his feet. 

The cab’s waiting for them outside, pulled into the little gravel parking lot beside the bar, and it has to have been more than the ten minutes McAnally had said, especially with the trip up the stairs, but the cabby is waiting patiently. 

McAnally pours him into the back, guiding his head, and the cabbie only looks a little surprised when he follows after him. Morgan’s more surprised, and he goes rigid with indignation and no little shame that he is in such a state that McAnally apparently doesn’t trust him to manage to get a hotel room on his own.

“Where to?”

McAnally hands the cabby a little card-- he flips the light on to read it, nods, and they’re off. Morgan’s just glad he threw up before they left; as long as McAnally’s taking him somewhere close, he should be able to handle the stops and starts and lurches of Chicago traffic without embarrassing himself or ruining the upholstery. 

He still ends up leaning against the cab door, stops fighting to try and make his eyes focus, breathing in the old car smells, staring blankly at the shadows of the footwell. It’s not a long drive, but he lost track of time somewhere near the end of the last bottle, and while he listens to the sounds as they spin in and out of focus, sometimes underwater, sometimes painfully loud-- the wheels on the pavement, the train overhead, honking, his own breathing-- it’s not until McAnally’s opened the door he’s leaning against that he realizes they’ve arrived.

McAnally rights him when he lurches, and helps him undo his seatbelt.

“We’re straight, now, right?” the cab driver asks, and McAnally grunts an affirmation, pulling Morgan out of the cab and passing a folded bill over to the driver. 

The cabby drives away, and Morgan stares around the block, then more wildly as he takes in the quiet residential street, lined on both sides with tidy greystones, big trees and quiet courtyards, little cars parked tightly up to the curb. 

“This isn’t a _hotel_ ,” he says, voice loud in the still night. Too loud for this late on a Monday, and a few lights flick on in some of the buildings. 

McAnally shakes his head sharply, and a part of Morgan that has taken orders for a long time pulls itself together. 

“Home,” McAnally says. “Will you accept my hospitality?” 

Mindful of that wordless rebuke, Morgan tries to keep his voice to a mutter. “I do accept,” he says. And nods, as the words seem to get stuck behind his teeth. 

He has never seen the barman’s home. They were not on such close terms. They were... friendly. The tavern had been a port in less dire storms, in its day. From time to time they spoke, or Morgan did, and felt content in McAnally’s presence. There had been a few brief dalliances, but too few and far between that Morgan should call him a lover. There’s something heavy in the barman’s eyes now, like sorrow; something has changed. But what? Is this the renewal of an alliance or the shattering of one? What right has McAnally to offer him hospitality after his betrayal?

He loses his balance with his flush of anger, stumbles, and slumps into McAnally’s grip when his arm comes around Morgan’s back, taking his weight despite the inches and fifty pounds Morgan has on him. McAnally leads him through a little iron gate, then slowly, carefully, down a curving path through an open courtyard, more of the old greystones backing onto it, and up to one of the entrances. He helps him up shallow cement stairs and produces keys from a pocket to unlock his door. 

“Come in,” he says simply, and then supports Morgan through. 

His threshold is old and surprisingly strong, and there are wards laid here, though by whom Morgan cannot say. But as he passes through that threshold and is welcomed inside the wards, he knows that he chose right. McAnally’s home is a tranquil place that smells of oak and herbs, yeast and cinnamon. The same peace that Morgan associates with the tavern wraps him around and lends some respite to his aching brain. 

It’s dark, but McAnally flicks on a light, brighter and stronger than the basic wiring he somehow keeps running in the tavern, and toes off his shoes. The world spins around Morgan, and he lets McAnally lean him back against the door and drop down to help him get his boots off. Morgan clutches at the wall as McAnally lifts his legs, one after another, and then he’s in his sock feet and being led into a bathroom. 

The light flicks on, bright then dimmed, and McAnally is humming soothingly to him as he strips him out of his shirt. It sticks to him, creased and limp, sweat soaked at his lower back, under his arms. He bends down to rummage under the sink, making Morgan dizzy when he tries to watch, perspective dying with a surge of fresh nausea, and comes up with a toothbrush still in its wrapping, a bottle of shampoo and one of conditioner, and a towel.

He offers the toothbrush to Morgan-- cracks open the back of the package, squeezes out some toothpaste and turns on the tap, and Morgan totters over, willing to oblige his host, a little ashamed now of the sour taste coating his tongue, the smell clinging to him. He makes a poor show of it, off-balance, hesitant to put anything too deeply into his mouth, loses the toothpaste early on and ends up scrubbing with just water and bristles, dribbling into his beard, down his neck. 

McAnally wets a face cloth, so soft and worn it’s more a rag, and presses it into his hand, helps him guide it to his face when he takes a confused second to respond. McAnally lets Morgan brace against the counter, shuffles around him, comfortable in his own home, and then presses a glass of water into Morgan’s hands, watching until Morgan drains it.

He feels well for almost a full three seconds, just long enough to be caught off guard when everything comes rushing back up, and he doesn’t even make it to the toilet, stomach clenching and heaving, eyes flooded involuntarily with tears. It hits the sink, but clean, nothing but water, and McAnally holds back his hair again, grunts reassuringly when Morgan’s done, blinking stupidly at his expression in the bathroom mirror. 

He doesn’t look in mirrors often-- safety, practicality, habit. But he recognizes himself, and wishes bitterly that he didn’t. There is a bruise, purple and red over one cheekbone, the bridge of his nose on that side is a little swollen. He had thought it would feel better to know the evidence was there, but the little flush of vindication he’s waiting for doesn’t come.

His heart rate slowing, the nausea subsided, if briefly, his body presents him with another indignity-- he slowly becomes aware of his full bladder. At first, he can ignore it, but the urgency grows, another ache heaped on him, insistent now that it has his attention. 

“Leave me,” he moans. 

McAnally grunts a negative. 

“I will not debase myself in front of you. Leave me.” 

“You can barely stand up,” the barman scolds, looking irritated that he’s forced to be so verbose; he unfastens Morgan’s belt and trouser fastenings with quick, sure movements. Morgan grabs clumsily after his trousers as they slide down to his knees, far too late to stop them. McAnally kneels, pulling them the rest of the way down, silently urging Morgan back. 

He sits heavily on the toilet and the barman divests him of his trousers completely, his underclothes, his socks. 

“Please. Go.” His voice drags out of him, slow and slurred. “I have humiliated myself enough tonight.” 

“This isn’t to shame you.” McAnally says, the words reluctant and hoarse. “I owe you my hospitality. For letting you be harmed in my bar.” 

“Why?” It pulls from his throat. Not ‘why do you owe me’ but ‘why did you let him, why did you side with him, what is he to you?’ He’d have thought he was too drunk for jealousy, too ill in mind and body. But there it is, an old friend, sharp and curdled in his empty stomach.

“He isn’t what you think. He had to succeed.” McAnally touches his shoulder, his features more expressive than his voice. “Too much pain to see, Morgan. But tonight, my hospitality.” 

“I do not need your service.” He tries to stand, to reach for his clothing. A gentle touch on his thigh is nearly enough weight to knock him down again. 

“I offer it. My protection.” 

Morgan sags against him, lets McAnally support him, confused, aching, tired. 

“And your friendship?” That which he thought he had. That which was called into question. And yet the barman feels strong as the oak pillars of the tavern as Morgan leans on him. 

“Always. Still,” McAnally says. “Donald.” 

It is both an apology, and a gentle command to give himself over. 

He’d have thought it would be harder. He puts an arm limply over McAnally’s shoulder and lets himself be put into the bath. 

The ceramic is cool under his skin, shocking, making him cringe, making his scalp tense-- he’s soothed with wordless murmurs, blunt-fingered hands stroking his head briefly. He closes his eyes and hears metal squeal and then the gush of water, heat splashing across his feet, seeping up under his legs, his ass. 

His eyes are so heavy; he is so tired, so aching. Warmth is creeping up under his back as the water rises, pounding and warm, steam licking at his face. Suddenly he cannot imagine moving; could almost weep at the thought of trying to stand. But his bladder aches, the water jolting it, reminding him, and he must. He raises an arm to the side of the tub and tries to push himself up. 

There is no strength left in him, and a hand covers his. 

“No,” he says, or at least makes a sound that means as much. “Have to--”

“No shame,” McAnally murmurs. “Can you let go?” 

“No...” Even, perhaps, if he wants to. Even if he desires the comfort of being tended entirely. But it is not in him; he strains against this last loss of control, eyes opening again as McAnally leans over the tub and lays that strong, heavy hand over his stomach and pushes, light and steady. 

He has to be doing this on purpose. They had never done this before, nothing close-- Morgan tries to be suspicious. Angered. The butt of a joke. Tries to draw up his fury in the way he has always been able to, when he’s needed the energy, the fuel for whatever he’s facing. He seeks the barman’s eyes, sees nothing but kindness and all the strength he lacks, for the moment. There is, too, a question, a worry, and the pressure against him lightens. 

There is a question but he has an answer that surprises him. He nods, takes care that it is a nod and not just a loll of his head, sags into the warm water and lets the piss come. 

He can feel it spilling over his chest and McAnally’s hand and mingling with the hot water; the release of it like the release of all the night’s poisons, the rage and the drink that have felled him. To be without that ache in his bladder is nearly like pleasure, is like a weight lifted from him. McAnally’s lips touch his forehead soothingly, wordless. He wonders if it is not so horrible a thing that he should lose control this way if McAnally is here to help him.

His waste pools on his stomach-- only for a moment, and then McAnally reaches to turn on the shower head. A moment of chill, the spit of water, and then a warm rain falls across Morgan and heats his shivering skin. He watches, blinking droplets of water away, as McAnally leans back and unbuttons his shirt, leaving only a undershirt that darkens with water as he leans back in to care for Morgan-- who shuts his eyes again and drifts. 

McAnally bathes him slowly, wiping the traces of sweat and urine away. He undoes Morgan’s queue and lets it spill over his shoulders, combing it out with his fingers; the tension he had not felt he feels now that it is gone. Slick fingers, the smell of something like soap, lime and something chemically-made-- McAnally working a lather through his hair. The shampoo. Water from a cupped hand spills over Morgan’s forehead and down his scalp, rinsing him clean, and again, and again, and he drifts with the water. 

There had been so much to drink; he has to piss again and moans softly. McAnally strokes his stomach, understanding, and this time Morgan does not resist, simply wets himself like an infant, the shower water rinsing him clean, McAnally’s hands still steady on him.

There is no shame. His weakness is to the bone but McAnally’s wards have turned back his humiliation. There is only his need and the strength that fills it. 

He does not know if he sleeps; if there is only a moment between that last release and the sound of the tap being turned off, or if he has lost long minutes. But it was not long enough, however long. He is sure he cannot move, yet at McAnally’s wordless urging he somehow manages to rise out of the tub, leaning heavy on the barman, and stand with his head slumped and his legs as far apart as he can so that he does not overbalance. 

McAnally dries him off, a heavy rough towel chasing the water from him-- he has only to stand, half his weight supported anyway, his hand holding onto McAnally’s arm.

He must have slept, before. Longer than he thought, because he has to piss again. The start of what could be a long night, if the alcohol he’s been pouring into his body since midday has started to drain. He shuffles, turns to the toilet-- McAnally shifts his weight, lets the towel drop, lets Morgan cling to him, and steers them more easily than Morgan can manage.

Morgan freezes, looking down at the toilet. His face goes hot, his skin prickles. He-- twice. All over himself, and with a witness-- 

Again McAnally’s face asks him a question, followed with a soft, inquisitive grunt. 

“Help me,” he groans.

McAnally reaches around him, holds his dick, and Morgan hasn’t even thought about it when he lets go, lets McAnally hold him until the end. The barman stands him up so that he can wash his hands and Morgan stares around the bathroom, lost, water from his hair dripping down his back and legs and onto the floor.

He glances again at the bottles that McAnally used for his hair. 

“Do you have many, here?” Men, women with long hair that needed tending? Why else would the barman, his scalp as smooth as his countertops, keep such supplies on hand? Who else had been here, who else had given the last drop of their control over to McAnally?

“Some,” McAnally says simply. “None like this.” He turns Morgan in his arms, bearing nearly all his weight, and holds him. “Let me protect you.” 

“Yes,” Morgan whispers.

“And lead you.” 

“Yes.” 

“Donald,” McAnally says, a sigh, and reaches up to stroke his hair with all the fondness and regret in the world. 

He takes Morgan’s shoulders again and guides him through halls, over hardwood floors, onto a carpet, and makes him sit again. Now on a bed, the surface yielding under him and making him pitch backwards before he can steady himself. 

A little lamp flicks on, on the bedside table, and McAnally stoops in front of him, lifting one foot and the other, this time putting clothes on instead of taking them off. Short pants, soft, a little worn. They are cool, and so are the blankets Morgan is tucked under. McAnally feels it too, shivers slightly as he strips the damp shirt from his chest and slides down his trousers. He is not a broad man but Morgan can see the muscle that has born him up tonight.

Despite the drink, despite the aches that are still with him, his body stirs and he reaches without thinking toward the planes of McAnally’s stomach. 

The barman’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head with a smile. “Wizards,” he mutters, and guides Morgan’s hand flat under the blanket again. The light is flicked off. “Sleep.” 

The arousal is not so near and the exhaustion was never so far away that Morgan could do otherwise. McAnally’s body folds around him, smaller but large enough to ward him. He is warm. Morgan sleeps.

* * *

 

The peace lasts until nausea wakes him before the sun rises-- he half falls out of bed and McAnally is quickly with him, blinking awake silently and guiding him to the bathroom so that he can bring up anything that’s left-- little enough, mostly acid-- and empty his bladder again. 

Again, McAnally holds his dick for him, a small indignity that is not an indignity when Morgan is so tired and McAnally so sure. He could turn from the man at any time and relishes the choice not to.

He brushes his teeth; McAnally washes his hands. They return to bed. 

 

The next time he wakes, the sun is golden and far too bright through blinds and green curtains he failed to notice in last night’s stupor. He is on his stomach; McAnally is sitting beside him, and from the pressure of a denim-clad knee against his arm, fully clothed. 

His fingers are in Morgan’s hair, combing it out idly, a little calming pressure against the headache raging inside his skull.

“My head hurts,” Morgan whispers, still too loudly. The fingers in his hair go still, McAnally laying his hand flat and comforting on his head, and then he is sliding off the bed, and gone, and the room is quiet save for traffic outside and across the courtyard. Morgan drools miserably into the bed and wishes for death to come quickly.

McAnally’s step is heavy-- at least it sounds as if he’s stomping-- but perhaps it’s only the beating in Morgan’s head. There is no way the glass of water coming down on the bedside table is as loud as it sounds, no way reaching and taking the pills McAnally offers is as impossible as it feels. He considers, briefly, putting his head back down, and either smothering in the pillow or falling back asleep, whichever happens first, but before he can give up on dignity completely, McAnally’s put the aspirin beside the glass and is bending down over him.

“Sit up,” McAnally tells him, and for his sake more than his own Morgan tries to comply.

He aches all over, sore in his joints, his roots of hair, his fucking toenails. He should really know better. He remembers railing against McAnally’s hospitality more clearly now, and groans. He has been forgiven many trespasses in the past day; he is not sure of the count of them. And still McAnally is here, lending an arm to get him turned over and sitting so that he can drink, and take the pills to replace the ones he threw up last night.

McAnally slides back in beside him, slips the aspirin into his mouth for him again, and Morgan considers him while he sips at the water. He is smiling slightly, and as much of a burden as Morgan feels, McAnally shows no sign of minding. He seems pleased by this, as he had seemed pleased to care for him in the night. This has, perhaps, not been entirely for Morgan’s benefit. 

“Do you make a habit of this?” His voice is a croak, even with the water he’s sipping, but the question is clear enough. 

McAnally doesn’t do him the disservice of pretending not to understand. He grunts something that could be-- perhaps is-- both yes and no, and kisses Morgan’s forehead. Perhaps all the speaking last night has taken its toll. He is not a man who speaks freely, never has been. 

“There have been others,” Morgan prompts.

A nod. 

“There will be others.” 

This time, McAnally doesn’t nod, but lifts a questioning eyebrow, grunting a wordless question back at him. That, it seems, is up to Morgan. 

“Will it be like this? Whenever I come to you? Will I submit myself to your hospitality and be your creature?” The words lack venom. He is a Warden, a soldier. He has been marching to orders for decades now, and there is a great comfort to that. It is a long time since he proved himself a loyal soldier in the bedroom as well, willing to follow commands if the one giving them was worthy. The night before-- he was conscripted and commanded in a different way, one no less welcome. Frightening in the darkness, something he has never done before, a level of control he has never ceded to anyone else. But it was done willingly. He would do it again. Finds himself wanting to be made to again, to relinquish all his last shreds of dignity and be freer without them.

McAnally still waits. This is his to answer, too. 

“If I wished that, when I came to you? You would accept me?” 

He is answered with a grunt, a nod. The barman’s door is open, then. He has but to walk through it. A fine offer, if he trusts McAnally enough. 

...A useful thought to have now, when he is already in the man’s bed, in his clothes, at his mercy. And so deeply in his debt. But he does not feel confined or constrained. 

Mostly he has a headache. 

McAnally’s hand brushes down his hair, combing it toward himself, apparently content. He takes the glass, mostly empty, puts it back on the bedside table, and Morgan’s eyes drift shut, just for a moment, and he is at peace there, leaning into McAnally’s touch.

He stirs. He doesn’t much want to talk, but there are still questions. “Is your tavern to be safe for me?” 

“Keep my peace,” McAnally says soberly, still stroking his hair. “Like anyone else.” 

The bruise on his face still stings; as does the memory. But he voided so much of his anger last night, along with his stomach, his bladder. The teeth have gone from the reminder. He will be able to face his duty again-- Dresden again-- when he is well. He will not argue this with McAnally, not now, and not here. There is much to be done still, even if one battle has been decided; in the sunlight he can see that all is not lost. The fight goes on; it always does. And he has the rare luxury of not fighting it just now. 

“I will keep the neutral territory. But in your home you will protect me as your own?” 

A nod. 

“And lead me?” 

Another. 

It is generous, considering his behavior. 

“We should speak. More. Later. I want to know what you want of me. I will not always be a burden.” His stomach twists, and he winces, hoping a little fervently that he won’t need to leave the bed to be ill again. “Not now. You picked a strange time to claim a lover, McAnally.” 

“You were hurt,” the barman says, as if this is answer enough. 

Perhaps it is, but Morgan turns his head to look at him, and there is much more McAnally hasn’t said out loud. But he’s never been one for words; Morgan knows this, as does everyone who’s ever met the barman, he’s sure, and McAnally is saying much more with his expression, the softness in his eyes, the confidence that must come from self-analysis, because it’s unflinching, unapologetic. 

Morgan is not ashamed of his desires, does not fear them; knows well that taking orders makes him no less a man than any soldier, no weaker than any loyal to a cause or a country or a lover. But there is strength in McAnally’s gaze that makes him wish, tinged with more desperation than he’s felt in decades, that he felt much, much better, could prove himself more worth the effort.

“I am wounded. But I will mend.” He scowls. “So long as Dresden--” 

“No,” McAnally commands him, and he lapses into obedient silence, not unhappy to have the matter decided for him. At the barman’s order, he will set his quarrels aside for as long as he is in this house, with utmost faith that McAnally will keep them from following him. 

If he should pledge himself to McAnally, it will be more than a brief dalliance, more than a game of soldiers. They will be more than lovers. McAnally ached at his pain and took solace in his comfort, and Morgan does trust him, trusts him with his body and his pride, and he has long valued those more than his heart. 

It is a safety he would not have found in Edinburgh and he is thankful for the impulse that guided him back to McAnally’s door, and for the impulse that made McAnally take him in. 

Little will change for anyone but the two of them, and he will be no more forgiving towards Dresden-- but he will not let it claw at his gut, his duty will not consume him. In this, McAnally still is his ally. This safe shelter is something he has been searching for for a long time, without knowing it. 

He doubles over again, uncomfortable, but his stomach settles and he breathes slowly as this last wave of sickness passes. It will be well. 

He eases down to the bed, with McAnally’s help, and rolls onto his stomach, the bit of pressure a welcome relief. It’s been a decade since he drank himself so ill; perhaps he has finally learned better this time. McAnally’s fingers find his hair again, and they and the aspirin start to drive the pain away, enough that he will sleep, like an invalid, and there is no shame. 

McAnally is braiding his hair, as nobody has since he was very young. He smiles into the pillow, and drifts back to sleep.


End file.
